


Another Lonely Night

by princesskay



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Palace, Pining, s3e08: The Great Red Dragon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5383118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of Will's return to the FBI to assist with the Red Dragon case, he and Hannibal separately consider their feelings for each other</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Lonely Night

Sharp, golden sunshine faded fast into the snow draped landscape, nearly as quickly as turning a light switch off. The days got dark early now, and despite all that lurked in the shadows, Will couldn't find it within himself to resent it. There was a comfort in the lack of light too.

He sipped whiskey before the fire, absently rubbing at the dogs' heads whenever they nudged at his leg. The house sat quiet and still under a gentle shower of fluffy, evening snow. Even Walter was quiet upstairs in his bedroom.

“You coming to bed?”

Will glanced up to the sound of Molly's voice. She leaned in the doorway, a sweater clutched around her middle, hair loose around her shoulders. The fire reflected warmth in her eyes.

“No, I think I'll stay up a little longer.” Will replied, gazing into the amber of the whiskey.

“You okay?”

“Hmm? … Oh yeah.” He muttered as he met her gaze.

“You seem restless.” She pointed out, crossing the room to sit next to him, “Something we should discuss?”

Will drew in a slow breath through his nostrils and let it out, “Remember when we first met?”

“Of course.”

“Remember how I told you there were some things about me and my past I was never going to be able to put behind me?”

“Yes ...” Slower this time.

“It's one of those things.” He said, throwing back a swallow of burning whiskey, “Some days it just catches up to me more than others.”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” She asked, touching his arm.

“I want you to not worry about me.” Will said, offering up a brief smile, “Because I'm going to be fine. I've pulled through more times than not.”  
“You've never told me about what happened a time you didn't.”

“I'm here.” Will said, clasping his hand over hers, “And I'm happy with what I have here. Go to bed.”

He kissed her mouth softly, and let it linger just to reassure himself.

She swallowed thickly and nodded despite the concern still shining through her eyes.

“Okay.” She agreed.

He watched as she left the room, her head ducked, her arms wrapped tight around herself. It occurred to him that vague connotations and transparent reassurances might not always be enough. For her, or for him.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he let out a weary sigh.

This was one of those days where it caught up, and it caught up fast. He did his best to connect as little as possible to the outside world. He held his empathy in check. He put his memories of the FBI on a very short leash in the back of his mind and shut the door on them. Most of all, he shoved Hannibal into the deepest, darkest corner, hoping to starve those specific memories and urges to death.

Upon leaving the FBI, his first urge was to run far away. So he did. He even stayed down in Florida and Louisiana for a short time, revisiting his childhood stomping grounds and trying to ground himself in his identity. He didn't like what he'd seen, so he came back up North and found a job that his non-law enforcement abilities could use. Repairing boat motors, and slowly, his heart.

After meeting Molly, he'd expected himself to grow into someone else, move past what had happened. He wasn't running anymore, just waiting for the memories not to sting so badly. It never happened. Three years into his departure, he still felt broken on some days and detached on others; sometimes both.

An empty space in his chest waited curiously for the beast inside him to emerge and find the one person that set a fire inside him.

His chest would have to remain empty. That person was locked away behind the bars of Baltimore State Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Declared insane. A monster. Not fit for this earth, for society.

Will swallowed back the rest of the whiskey so fast that it brought moisture to his eyes. He set the glass aside and rose from the couch. Kneeling before the fire, he added another log for the night and shifted into position with the poker until flame took hold.

He straightened and watched it burn for several moments. He listened to the house shifting, the crackle of wood, the clock ticking. The shadows loomed, as if the walls were closing in around him. Suddenly, he felt out of place, a stranger in his own home, an unwanted guest slinking past the walls of a woman and her child's house.

Will broke out of his reverie and marched to the front door. He shoved his feet into his boots, threw his coat over his shoulders, and snatched the car keys from the table. Stepping out into the dusting snow, he eased the door quietly shut behind him and took the porch steps down to where the truck was parked.

He moved by rote, climbing behind the wheel, turning the key, stepping on the gas. The headlights cut a broad swath of light across the yard, illuminating freshly fallen snow, the wood shed, and the treeline in the distance. He cruised down the driveway and out onto the road, where snow hedged past the guard rails.

Conditions were slick, but he drove with concentration, his hands white and cold around the wheel. Deafening silence filled his head despite the motion of the car, which usually calmed the din in his head.

He jabbed the button to turn on the stereo, switching it from Molly's country station to classic rock. He didn't know the song, but it didn't matter. He just had to drown out the voices in his head.

He'd felt this way before, when Hobbs was haunting him; like he was in sync with Hannibal. Going through the same motions, eating, sleeping, reading, _reminiscing_ at the same times. The pull of another mind plucked like guitar strings at the back of his mind, begging his attention.

He couldn't stop imaging what Hannibal was doing right now, at this very moment. Locked in his cell, reduced to a prison uniform and the slimmest of comforts, did he resent Will for what had happened? Did he wither in the dark, under the lack of sun, exercise, opera, and his own debauched cooking? Or did he bloom despite the circumstances, hardy and enduring like a desert flower standing proud and succulent despite the harsh conditions?

The more his mind unraveled the possibilities, the more Will became certain that Hannibal was sitting in his cell at the hospital, laughing merrily at Will's predicament. Despite what they'd shared, Will knew for certain the man was cold, no soul. If he'd ever really cared about Will, it had been out of selfish desire to see exactly how far he could push Will, and what he could do with a such a dynamic mind.

_You have to forget him._ Will insisted to himself. 

He gripped the steering wheel tighter and let his foot fall heavy on the pedal. The truck accelerated down the pavement, headlights showing him an lonely, endless strip of asphalt, shrouded on either side by thick, snow covered pines.

He didn't know where he was going. He simply had to get away.

 

~

 

The ornate, golden walls of the Norman Chapel faded away to harsh, sterile white and a thick pane of glass that caged him like an exotic animal in the zoos. The heavy clang of the door shutting alerted him to the orderly rolling the meal cart to his box.

The orderly didn't say a word to him as she opened the box and shoved a tray carelessly inside.

“Eat up.” She sneered before turning to leave.

Hannibal watched her go, unperturbed.

_The Joy of Cooking_ was still open on his lap. He hadn't truly realized he'd faded away to memory palace until the walls were fully built around him, and he was standing before the altar, waiting. 

Hannibal rose from his cot and strode to the box to retrieve his tray for the simple excuse of shoving his thoughts back into their proper places. In reality, he could wait forever. In the Norman Chapel, he was not so patient. He had to remember the distinction.

Hannibal curled his lips as he pulled the dinner tray from the box. Lumpy mashed potatoes, shiny canned corn, and crumbling meatloaf. It wasn't fit for animals, but Hannibal was aware that refusing to eat would earn him little more than a stomach ache and punishment from Chilton; loss of his books, drawings, the toilet seat. The few luxuries he had in this place.

He took the food to the table and began to eat mechanically, ignoring the vile taste of the food. If Chilton thought he could get a reaction by serving the worst possible food, he was really quite vain and foolish. Chilton had no idea the conditions Hannibal had been forged in, and that he'd been forced to eat quite worse in his childhood. Obviously, Chilton had never been an orphan.

When he finished eating, he put the tray back in the box and washed his mouth out with water. The foul taste lingered, but no more than he could manage.

There was still two hours before lights out. He went to his drawings and scanned through several unfinished pieces before settling on one. A recreation of Florence. It pained him to think he might never see Florence again, and yet the narrow streets, stucco roofs, and the distant, looming artifices of Italian architecture in the city gave him the deepest rush of happiness and satisfaction.

He sketched until his hand started to cramp and the Florence landscape began to take real shape. He set it aside with his pencils and went to his cot early. Opening a book, he scanned a few pages before realizing he hadn't absorbed a single word. With a sigh, he set the book aside and slid down under the thin sheet.

Twenty minutes later, with no announcement, the lights shut off.

Hannibal lay on his back against the hard, narrow mattress and closed his eyes. Performing a few breathing exercises, he wrangled his body into relaxation, hoping his mind would follow. It didn't.

The Normal Chapel rose from the dust and clutter of Italian streets, shoving aside all else except for the sanctified center of worship where Christ the Redeemer gazed down at the single patron. Hannibal didn't acknowledge Him or speak to Him. He was waiting.

Somewhere between reconstructing the pillars that raised the ceiling and the prayer candles, his mind dropped off from imagination into sleep. He didn't realize it was dream as Will entered the chapel and took the steps up to the altar where Hannibal waited.

“You waited for me?” He asked, and his voice was as warm and sweet as honey.

“Where else would I go?” Hannibal asked, slowly turning to gaze at him.

Will appeared as he had been in Hannibal's last memory of him in the outside world, a little beaten and broken from their ordeal at Muskrat Farm, a little anxious; but this time, the fear in his eyes melted away to longing. He rushed up the steps without another word and pressed himself into Hannibal's arms.

“I'm sorry.” He whispered, his breath warm and fast against Hannibal's neck.

“Do not weep, my dear. You're here. And I'm happy with that fact alone.”

Will lifted his head. His wide eyes shone blue and green like the ocean, vast and beckoning. There was a single, breathless moment before he leaned in and crushed his lips against Hannibal's.

The kiss seemed too distant and lacking substance – and this should have alerted Hannibal to the fact that he was dreaming. But he ignored this prod of reality in the back of his mind and delved deeper into the dream.

He pushed Will down to the floor of the Norman Chapel, pushing away layers of clothes with hasty, shaking hands, searching for bare skin. The fabric succumbed, and then he was touching Will, fingers seeking across his belly and chest, curling around the slender, pale column of his throat. Their hips rutted against each other, driving each other to hardness and keening need. Hannibal could feel the burn and tingle down in his groin and slowly spreading out into his belly and chest. It felt too real, and far too good. Will was touching him, hand shoving haltingly between them to feel Hannibal's erection. The slight pump of his fist made Hannibal throw his head back in a growl. It felt like he should be coming because he hadn't been this hard in awhile, and he hadn't come in even longer. And fuck it Will didn't hurry up and get him off right here in the Chapel because Hannibal was already ready for round two when he would be shoving the length of his hard cock down Will ass. 

Suddenly, the blare of an alarm broke them apart.

Will scrambled out from underneath him, “I have to go.”

“You only just arrived.” Hannibal said, dismayed.

“I can't stay.” Will said, backing away.

The strobe of red and blue lights flashed through the mosaic windows of the chapel, opening a pit of dread in his stomach.

“Will, what did you do?”

Will shook his head, “I'm sorry, Hannibal.”

Hannibal jarred awake suddenly, sitting up disoriented and grasping at thin air. It took him several confusing moments to realize that he was still in the mental hospital, but the sound of alarm system going off was very real.

The door behind his glass wall opened and a furious looking orderly came in.

“Some idiot tripped the alarm doing his rounds.” She said, “You can go back to sleep as soon as they shut off the damn alarm.”

“Thank you.” Hannibal replied, as calmly as he could.

She marched back out, slamming the door shut behind her.

After a few irritating moments, the alarm halted abruptly, plunging his cell into silence. In the quiet, he breathed his anxiety into the open air in steady breaths, wanting to purge the dream's ending from his memory forever. Sadly, as much as he wanted to believe Will wouldn't betray him that way should they ever meet again, he knew it wasn't true; Will had betrayed him once before with dreadful consequences. It hadn't stopped him from following Hannibal to Italy, and driving the final nail into their coffin with his last rejection.

Hannibal slowly laid back against his pillow. As the tension seeped away from his muscles, he realized his erection was making a rather large tent of his jumpsuit. Slightly frustrated, he pushed it down, rewarding his body's ridiculous desires with a twinge of pain. His cock didn't get the message.

It seemed that no matter what Will did to him, he couldn't let go. He'd seen a part of himself in Will, he'd nurtured it, he'd helped it grow, he'd watched it bloom. Somewhere along the way, their roots had become entwined. He'd always been so careful to keep any liaisons he entertained separate from his true identity, but Will had inadvertently slipped under the barriers. Beneath his skin, into his heart, lodged in his brain.

A glance a the clock told him it was well past midnight. It was dark, the moon was high and swathed in clouds. But sleep evaded him.

He tossed and turned on the hard, narrow cot, doing his best not to think of Will, not to think of the arousing dream. His cock lay hard and determined against his thigh. It was agonizing to think of Will and his big pretty eyes, his soft curls, his perfect, pale skin and not indulge just a bit.

Hannibal's eyes sprang open at the sound of the locks turning outside his door. The signal the final rounds were over and all the overnight staff would be in bed until morning unless a patient needed something.

He was utterly alone except for the gaze of the moon which played a game of peek-a-boo behind the clouds. Chuckling at his stupidity.

With a quiet curse, he reached down to unbutton the front of the jumpsuit. He shrugged out of the sleeves, allowing the top half to bunch around his waist. The cool air hit his bare arms, nipples pressed hard against his undershirt. He pushed down the waistband of his boxers, letting the swollen head slip out. The pale light of the moon overhead provided just enough illumination to let him see how hard he was. 

Suppressing a quiet groaned, he shoved the boxers down below his balls and grabbed firmly at the base of his cock. The skin was hot and pulsing, blood flowing thickly beneath tender, stretched skin. He was sensitive to the touch, bucking eagerly against his palm in a plea to come already.

He pressed his head back against the pillow and breathed out a slow breath. His heart stampeded ahead, creating a mildly distracted din in his head.

_Slowly._

The thought came like a self-inflicted punishment. 

He carefully drew his fist up the shaft and back down again, tortuously slow. A shudder wracked him, and he pinned his teeth down over his lower lip to squelch a fragile moan. The pleasure burned like slowly devouring embers, growing hotter and more volatile with even the smallest kindling.

The image of Will beneath him, pressed moaning and eager against the smooth tiles of the Norman Chapel entered his mind. There it blossomed, his waking mind adding cognizant details his disordered dreamworld couldn't.

A moan lurched against his pursed lips as he massaged a bit faster, fostering the swelling need to it's apex. The imaginations behind his eyes multiplied, a number of them leaving Will naked and bruised on the floor, dripping with come, begging –  _oh fuck –_ begging for mercy. 

“Oh!” The sound burst from his lips as he arched up from the mattress.

His fist jerked faster and harder, need tearing past his admonition to go slow. The skin fairly glowed beneath the friction of his palm, skin pink and gleaming with the clear drops of arousal, veins popping purple and distended down the shaft.

His insides burned like molten lava, and his muscles grabbed tense and eager. Waiting. His heels dug into the mattress, gaining traction as his hips rose up against the downward crush of his fist. His panting halted in the back of his throat, lungs aching as his body refused to draw a breath in favor of concentration on the pleasure swarming in his groin. There was no sound except his fist rubbing mercilessly over his cock and the quiet groan of the metal bed frame lurching against it's bolts.

Then, it burst from him like a dam breaking and letting the flood loose. He stiffened, his fist wrapped tight around the base, wringing it from him. As the first drops of release spurted from him, he began his buck, his body manipulated by pleasured spasms that gripped him until the last of the thick, wet, copious release had been milked from him.

He sank down against the sheets, panting softly and uttered a quiet moan to the ceiling. His hand dripped wet with come, and his undershirt was ruined. He swallowed hard as he stared at the ceiling, feeling his face grow increasingly warm and the voice of his conscience begin to shout at this childish behavior. The distinction was gone.

He sat up carefully and removed the undershirt. He used it to wipe the come from his hand before he walked it to the trashcan. He wouldn't be sending it to the wash.

He pushed his arms back through the sleeves of the jumpsuit it buttoned it up his chest. Walking back to the cot, he laid down stiffly on his back and pulled the sheets up to his chest. The images of Will in the Chapel were tarnished and gaudy without the seductive light of arousal. He felt disgusted with himself.

He closed his eyes again and tried to sleep. Rest didn't come easily, but when it did, he was carried back into that world. Waiting still.

 

~

 

Will jerked awake, coming out of a restless sleep that had plagued him during the few hours he could make his eyes close.

Morning sunlight streamed past the curtains, and it was much too warm in the room. He threw back the covers and stripped his shirt off over his head. As he settled back against the pillows, he noticed Molly stirring next to him. She mumbled something indistinct before blinking her eyes open to meet his gaze. 

“Hey, you.”

“Hey.” He whispered, his throat choked by the sudden realization that he probably didn't appreciate her enough.

“I heard you come in late. What time was it?” She asked, drowsily.

“Late.” He murmured, reaching over to rub her belly where her tank top rode up, “Sorry if I disturbed you.”

“I heard you leave too.” She said, softly, averting her gaze.

Will ducked his head, “I needed to clear my head.”

“Of what?”

_Of him._

“Just … stuff.” The words came out weak and insufficient.

Molly frowned, “I don't want to nag you, Will, but-”

“I'm sorry. I don't know why, I have this sinking feeling ...” Will sighed.

“About what?”

“That it's all about to come back.”

“Come back?”

“Everything from Baltimore and my time with the BAU.” Will clarified in a hoarse whisper, “It feels like a ghost whispering on the back of my neck.”

She sat up slowly, disentangling her legs from the sheets. Will pursed his lips as they pulled free bare and smooth. She was only wearing her panties and tank top.

Molly slid closer, reaching a hand around to touch the back of his neck. Her mouth followed a second later, her body pressing warm against his chest as she bent her neck over his shoulder to find his nape.

“Does that help?” She murmured.

He wrapped his arms fully around her waist, pulling her too arm in a desperate grab at reality, at stability.

“Yes.” He replied, unsteadily.

She continued to kiss along the top of his spine until she reached the base of his neck. Her lips parted to leave a brief suck mark on his shoulder and a shiver down his spine.

He hadn't been horny before, but Molly had a way of changing that.

She lifted her head, but before she could lean in for a kiss he had pushed her down against the mattress. He kissed her brief and hard, and moved down to her neck, leaving a small trail of saliva down to her collarbone. She shivered and moaned underneath him, hands grasping at his shoulders, legs winding around his hips.

He broke away from her neck and leaned back, fingers catching on her panties. They peeled off quick and easy, the cotton damp on the inside. He tossed them away, and pushed her legs apart though she didn't need any urging.

He didn't stop moving until he discarded his underwear and had pushed inside her, his body hunched over her smaller figure. He buried his face in her neck as he thrust, pushing back that darkness that churned like the tide at the edges of his mind.

He wasn't one to avoid a painful conversation with sex. It was low and it was temporary. Molly had a way of getting things out of him, even if he didn't want to say them; soon she was going to find out what was rattling around in his head. He could only hope she never knew that sometimes when he was making love to her, he wondered what it would be like to fuck someone else; someone who had set his mind on fire and then watched him burn.

 

~

 

Sex was over fast.

They didn't talk as they cleaned up, and only mumbled an agreement to get up and make dinner before Walter started knocking on their door. Molly started pancakes while Will set the table and took the dogs out for a morning pee and exercise.

His breath steamed in the air as he took in cool, clean lungfuls and blew them back out in a fruitless attempt to calm himself. He walked down to the end of he driveway and checked the mail. Bills, junk mail, something addressed to Molly from a friend, and ….

Will's heart came to a jarring halt, like a cold, dead ball of ice in his chest.

Delicate, majestic calligraphy spelled out his name and address in handwriting that he couldn't forget in a million years. The envelope was stamped twice. Once from the post office, the other from the FBI lab. The postmark came from Baltimore.

Will glanced up and down the empty road, and back toward the house, having the absurd feeling that Hannibal was somehow watching him receive this envelope. The grounds were still and quiet. The only company was the dogs.

Will shoved the envelope in between the rest of the mail and started back to the house. His heart pounded out a hollow rhythm in his chest as he called the dogs inside and stomped the snow off his boots.

“Pancakes are ready!” Molly called from the kitchen.

“I'll be there in a minute.”

He kicked his boots off and hung his coat by the door. Escaping into the bedroom, he pulled the envelope out and stared at it in his shaking hands. He should burn it. He should burn it right now and forget that he had ever seen it.

It took only a few moments for him to lose confidence. He opened the top drawer of the dresser and pushed the envelope to the back. He slammed it shut and told himself he would leave it there until he forgot about it or the curiosity overcame him. He knew which one would come first.

Tamping the suffocating feeling of panic, he walked back out to the kitchen where Molly had set his place with pancakes and orange juice. She was finishing preparing coffee when he sat down. Without really concentrating on his actions, he buttered the pancakes, poured syrup over them, and dug in. He couldn't feel his hunger anymore.

Molly set his coffee down and dropped a kiss on his crown. Her hand lingered on his shoulder, and their eyes connected briefly. Her gaze held onto his questioningly, but he broke off the contact to stare at his breakfast. The pancakes congealed into a hard lump against the roof of his mouth.

“Mom, can I go hang out with Patrick today?” Walter's voice interrupted the thick silence.

Patrick was the neighbor kid who lived behind them, no more than a mile out through a small patch of woods. Will couldn't remember having another kid to play with as a child.

“Sure, honey.” Molly replied, “Just make sure you do your homework first.”

“It's already done.” Walter perked up.

“You'll have to show me.” Molly replied with a smile.

“Okay.” Walter agreed.

A mild headache at the back of his neck tuned out the rest of the conversation over breakfast. Will ate as quickly as he could without choking. He tried to ignore the faint hum of swelling panic in the back of his mind.

As soon as he scraped his plate clean, he bolted from the table, put his dishes in the sink and headed for the front door.

“I'm gonna head out to the shed. There's a couple of things I need to work on out there.”

He began to pile into his coat, but Molly jogged from the kitchen to join him by the door.

“Hey,” She said, warmly, “What's up?”

“Nothing.” He said. Plastering a smile on his face, he patted her backside, “Anymore.”

“Don't do that again.” She said, frowning, “Don't try to change the subject.”

“You started it.” He pointed out.

She chewed her lower lip as she watched him dress, “I can't believe I'm doing this. I am not a nag. You know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then again, I haven't been this worried about you in awhile.”

“I'll be okay.” Will assured, “I just need time to clear my head and remind myself why I'm here.”

“And not there?”

“Right.”

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, “Okay.

“I'll be back in in a couple of hours.” Will said, grabbing the door handle.

She stood back, pulling her robe around her middle as cold air swept inside.

“Walter agreed to give me a hand with fishing today,” She said, “I might not be here when you get back.”

“Okay.”

He slipped out and pulled the door firmly shut behind him. A gust of winter air filled his lungs with a frozen breath, clearing lingering haze from his mind. If there was one remedy he would always believe in, it was the unwavering ability of the vastness of nature and the resolute steadfastness of a tool in his hand to make his worries seem small.

The dogs swarmed around him as he took the short walk up to the drive to shed. The interior smelled like sawdust, paint, and motor oil. A gust of frigid wind aired out the suffocating scents, and he let it stand open for quite a bit as he worked. His face was cold and chapped by the time he gathered his tools to begin work on outdoor projects, the first being the latch of the shed he stood in.

As he stepped outside, the dogs jumped around him, eager to distract him from his work and draw him away to play with them. Ignoring the allure of free care play with his pets, he picked up a wrench and went to work on the latch.

The crunch of snow underneath heavy tires drew his gaze only moments later. The still, white landscape of his rustic home was disrupted by the appearance of sleek, black SUV, marked with government plates.

It wasn't the sudden, cold shock he had expected. Less of a bucket of ice water being dropped over his head, and more of a slow, tedious descent into the waves. A resignation. From the moment he'd gotten that letter in the mail, he'd known. Now, he could only imagine what words were contained beyond the seal. A warning, or an invitation.

 

~

 

Life in Baltimore State Mental Hospital was mundane, and ritualistic. Everything happened at the same time ever day. Any variance in the schedule was created by an outside force. Locked away from the rest of the prisoners, Hannibal was cut off from the allure of orchestrating and manipulating events to fulfill his morbid curiosity.

To the community of psychology experts who had attempted to understand him, this situation should have starved him. It should have drained his morale and enraged his dark urges. These speculations left Hannibal rather amused and much more satisfied than they imagined. In truth, Hannibal could wait behind these walls forever until he found the correct timing to slip away. If he had tried hard enough, he certainly could have done so already. But he was waiting.

It had been three days since he'd performed his desires to the light of moon, four since he'd since off his letter of warning to Will. He'd pressed his emotions back into their correct place. He was maintaining glacial calm – just waiting.

He'd slipped, but who didn't slip every once in awhile? Who didn't act and immediately regret? He was better than his basic urges, and with time, they would be refined like gold to match the elevation of his cooking. In his world, murder was art; he wasn't banking on sex being so as well, but it would add a nice touch.

The orderly didn't knock when he came in. They never did.

Hannibal rose from his bed and approached the glass, “Yes?”

“Lecter, you have a visitor.” The orderly said.

“Thank you.”

The orderly departed, letting the door slam shut behind him. Hannibal drew a quick tongue across his lips and breathed deeply. Calm. He paced, channeling pent up energy out their his limbs in order to exude grace and calm.

He paused by his table, dragging his fingertips over the papers, marked by half-finished drawings. Pencil renderings of Paris and Florence, and one of a young man with his back facing the viewer, his chin turned shyly against his shoulder. Thick, dark curls shadowed his eyes.

Hannibal drew in a breath through his nostrils as he gazed at the picture, an imago. A concept. Whoever walked through that door, he knew it wouldn't be the same man who had once sat across from him in therapy.

The doors opened again.

Hannibal let the paper drop to the table. He could feel the weight of a familiar gaze on the back of his neck. He could image the Norman Chapel around them, no glass between them. He'd been waiting here for so long, and eternity it seemed.

Turning slowly, Hannibal gazed through the pane of glass, to the dimly lit area beyond his cell. Will strode toward the partition, stoicism and a tinge of anger holding his shoulders taut. He didn't look like the frightened, unstable fisherman Hannibal had treated. No glasses hiding his eyes, no aversion to eye contact. He was dressed sharply, his hair combed, beard trimmed and neat; Hannibal felt a swell of pride, and conversely, jealousy.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter.” Will said, and his voice did not tremble.

Hannibal approached the glass, his heart already plunging ahead, “Hello, Will.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was pointless angst since we all know what happens after the Dragon (murder husbands!) but I was thinking about how hard it must have been for Hannibal being locked up those three years, and I happened to be listening to Adam Lambert's amazing song Another Lonely Night. The feels hit! :3 Thanks for reading!
> 
> Tumblr: [relentless-fire](http://relentless-fire.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Another Lonely Night


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